


Always You

by ardentaislinn



Category: Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M, Fake Out Make Out, Getting Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17035434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentaislinn/pseuds/ardentaislinn
Summary: When Strike nearly dies while Robin is on her honeymoon, she races back to London to help him recover and solve the case.





	Always You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/gifts).



So this was how it ended.

Strike had always wondered. He’d had enough near-death experiences to know his luck would run out eventually. He wasn’t the kind of man who would be blessed to die peacefully in his bed of old age.

No. Apparently, it would be a bullet in a stinking back alley, and white-hot agony.

As blackness closed over him, he had the last, final thought that he was glad Robin wasn’t here to witness it.

And then there was nothing.

 

~*~

 

Strike started awake. This time, it wasn’t the pain that roused him from his slumber, as it had been the previous few nights since he’d been shot. He lay still in the darkness, staring at the ceiling of his flat, straining his senses for any sign of what had awoken him. London’s late-night traffic was the only sound.

But something told him he wasn’t alone.

He shifted his eyes until they landed on the figure sitting on the chair in the corner. A sound escaped him at the sight—somewhere between surprise, annoyance, and amusement.

“You’re getting soft if I could get this far in without you waking,” Robin said.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice raspy from sleep and pain. He ignored her dig at his softness. Tonight was the first night he’d managed to actually sleep deeply, and he was exhausted. He’d forgive himself this once.

“Heard you were shot,” she replied softly. “Thought I’d see for myself that you were alright.”

“Shanker called you?”

“Well, you didn’t, so someone had to.” There was censure in her voice, and Strike felt a stab of guilt. He’d known that she’d want to be informed that he nearly died, but he’d still chosen not to tell her.

“You were on your honeymoon,” he said by way of explanation. “Where you’re meant to be now.” It was a reminder, to both her and himself.

They stared at each other in the muted light from beyond his curtains. It was barely enough for him to make out her expression. She was beautiful, as always. His gut kicked, as it always did in her presence, no matter how he ignored it. Her elbows rested on her knees, her fingers entwined, as she studied him in return.

Something passed between them. Something deep and unspoken. He knew why she’d come back. And she knew. But neither of them would say it aloud. Break this fragile bond between them.

Not when she was married.

“I couldn’t stay there. Not when I heard.”

“That’s why I didn’t want you to hear it at all.”

She sat back in disgust at that. “Shanker said that if it hadn’t been an emergency room surgeon who found you in that alley, you would have bled out then and there. Of all the dumb, bloody luck…” She trailed off. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she finished softly.

“I’m alive,” he corrected. “That’s all that matters.”

They fell silent for a moment, and Strike was intensely aware of her breathing. Of the fact that he only wore underwear beneath the quilt. Of the fact that his prosthetic was propped against the bedside table, instead of attached to his leg.

He wanted to tell her to leave, at least long enough for him to dress and reattach his leg. It would put them on more equal footing, allow him to restore his equilibrium. But to do so would make it obvious how much she discombobulated him, and so instead he forced himself to relax, and again not test that fragile truce between them. If he made it too obvious how she effected him, they would no longer be able to pretend there was nothing there.

And they needed to keep pretending.

“What were you doing in that alley?” she asked suddenly.

He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his shoulder, and buying him time to bring himself back to the present. “Meeting a source. Or so I thought.”

“You think it was a setup?”

He shrugged, then winced as pain shot through his shoulder and spread through the rest of him. “Maybe. Or maybe it was just bad luck.”

“Did they catch the guy who shot you?”

Strike shook his head against the pillow. “He’s in the wind.”

“Does he know he didn’t manage to finish the job?” She crossed one leg over the other, her face determined. She was in investigator mode, and part of him hated how much he liked it.

“Probably. It was in the papers, much to my annoyance. My bad luck has made me a minor celebrity, showing up in the Mail every few months.”

“You were already a minor celebrity,” she reminded him.

He scoffed but didn’t reply. She was right, damn her.

“So, some guy lured you into a trap, and might return to finish the job. Is that about right?”

Strike let out a breath. “We don’t know he’ll be back. Maybe he just meant to scare me. Or maybe it was a random coincidence.”

Robin gave him a look that told him she didn’t believe it, and he couldn’t help but smile. Yeah, he needed to treat this as if someone was gunning for him. It would be stupid of him not to.

“Tell me about the case you were working on,” Robin said.

“Can’t we do this in the morning? It must be late. Or early.” And he needed to be dressed when they had this conversation.

“It is. I caught the last flight out, but it was the soonest I could get here.” Her gaze flickered to the door, and Strike follow the look to see two suitcases—one large one, and a matching carry on—sitting just inside the flat.

He groaned. “You came straight from the airport?”

“Yeah. I—” She broke off and turned away, blinking. A lump lodged in Strike’s throat, but he resisted the urge to reach for her. “I needed to see you were okay with my own eyes.”

“Matthew won’t be happy.” It wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He meant to avoid mention of Robin’s new husband entirely, for his own sanity. But the words just popped out.

“He wasn’t,” she said, voice dull. “But I could hardly lay on a beach enjoying myself knowing you had nearly died. He should have understood that.”

The implication was, of course, that Matthew _hadn’t_ understood that. The ways Matthew failed to understand Robin was a constant surprise for Strike. She deserved better. But now that there was a ring on her finger, that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Not unless a miracle occurred and Matthew got his act together before it was too late.

Though…Strike peered through the gloom at her hands, wondering if he was imagining things. Maybe there _wasn’t_ a ring on her finger. Again. Which was all kinds of dangerous. So Strike made the conscious decision not to think about it. Yet. Not until he was alone.

“You should have at least gone back to the apartment first, got some sleep. I’ll still be here in the morning.” His voice was gruff, but he was more touched than he’d let on that she’d raced back from her honeymoon just to make sure he was alright. To come straight to his apartment with no stops, just to see him breathing with her own two eyes.

“You would have done the same,” she said.

He wanted to deny it, but there was no point. They both knew it was true.

She yawned, and guilt speared him. She should be asleep right now, dreaming of the beach she was going to relax by tomorrow with her new husband. Not here with him.

“You should sleep,” he told her, firmer this time. “We can talk about the case tomorrow.”

She nodded, and then yawned again. She stood and stretched, exposing a thin sliver of bare skin at her stomach. “You sure you don’t want me to stay?”

Strike tensed. “What?” The word came out strangled.

“You know, in case the guy who shot you comes back.” She sent him a cheeky grin.

Strike let out an unsteady breath as mingled relief and disappointment washed through him. “I’ll be fine.” He doubted he’d get any more sleep tonight anyway, not after her visit.

She took a step towards the door and stumbled. Strike sat up instantly, reaching a hand out as if to steady her, even though he couldn’t reach. Robin corrected herself before she fell and sent an abashed look his way.

The look quickly changed to something else. Something lingering. And Strike was suddenly, intensely, aware of the fact that the quilt had pooled at his waist as he’d sat up, revealing his bare chest.

And she wasn’t staring at the taped wound on his shoulder, either.

His cheeks heated and he had to resist the urge to cover himself like a missish schoolgirl.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice like sandpaper.

She didn’t hear him, or ignored him if she had, her gaze fixed on his chest. She licked her lips and heat speared through him, pooling low.

Damn it, not now. Not like this. They’d fought so hard to maintain the status quo, and to have all their hard work obliterated in a single, thoughtless movement was just too cruel.

Though there was that bare finger to think about…

No. No, he wouldn’t. He knew from experience that Matthew wouldn’t be so difficult for Robin to shake, from her life or her head. There was every chance Matthew would win her back again, particularly now they were actually married.

He wouldn’t get in the way of that. Both he and Robin would regret it, particularly if it was an impulsive, reckless move. Like him reaching for her, taking her hand, and tugging her into bed with him. Like asking her to stay.

They had to be stronger than that. No matter how much he wished otherwise.

“Take a cab,” he said, and her eyes finally rose to meet his. “It’s too late for anything else.”

Robin nodded, and though he couldn’t see any colour on her cheeks due to the low light, he could picture it clearly. He bit back a groan, fighting his own impulses with everything he had.

“Right,” she said. “I’ll see you early tomorrow. Don’t bother coming down to the office. You should rest that shoulder.” She nodded to the wound, and relief twisted through him. They could pretend she’d been staring at the wound. Nothing would have to change.

“It’s about time I got back to—”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’ll meet you here. With breakfast.”

There was no arguing with her. Instead, he said goodbye, and watched her walk out of his apartment, dragging her suitcases behind her.

 

~*~

 

As promised, Robin arrived at eight the next morning. Thankfully, this time Strike was dressed and waiting for her, since he’d only managed to doze after she’d left.

She looked fresher than she had any right to, considering how little sleep she must have had. But there was something brighter about her. Maybe the holiday in the sun had done her good, even if it only lasted a week. Or maybe she had other reasons to be happy. But Strike wouldn’t think about that, not now.

“So, tell me what happened,” she demanded, handing him a bag emanating heavenly smells. He opened it to find a breakfast sandwich wrapped in paper.

She headed into the kitchen to make tea – no doubt her frugality had prevented her from buying tea or coffee for them at the place she’d bought the food, when she could just as easily make mugs here. Strike adjusted the pillows behind him on the bed and settled in for a long story.

He wanted to ask her about Matthew, and about the ring. About so many things. But as he always did these days, he kept it about the work.

“New clients came to visit me about a week ago,” he began, raising his voice so she could hear him in the kitchen. “Two young women who wanted me to search for their missing father. Name of Connelly. Apparently he’d just not come home from work one night, and they were worried. Police were useless, of course.”

The kettle finished boiling and she poured the water into mugs.

“Any clues?”

“Not much. He hadn’t been acting any differently according to them. Nothing to indicate he was having an affair. And since he didn’t take anything with him, they think he’s met with foul play.”

“Makes sense. So what did you do?”

“The usual. Started making inquiries around his friends and family. No one could think of any reason someone would want to hurt him, or any reason he might walk away from his life.” Robin came back into the room carrying two mugs. She placed one beside him on the bedside table and then took her chair by the wall.

“Suicide?” she suggested.

“It occurred to me as a possibility. I checked with Wardle, but no unidentified bodies showed up in the time period in question that matched the man’s description. There was a promising one found in the Thames, but further investigation pegged him as too young, but not aged well. A junkie, if I had to guess. I’m not ruling suicide out, but we’ll see.”

“Okay. Tell me about this guy.”

“Not much to tell. By all accounts, he was a very boring man. Everyone said so. He was divorced about five years ago. Didn’t speak to the ex much but were friendly enough when they had to be for the sake of his girls. According to the daughters, all he did was work, with the occasional drinks with his friends. Most people couldn’t even say what he did for a living because they tuned out any time he talked about it.”

“Ouch,” she said with a wince. “What _did_ he do?”

“Accountant,” Strike replied. “But a specialised kind. I dug into it, but I couldn’t find any reason the job might be related to his disappearance.”

“Right. Then what happened?”

“I’d been on the case a few days at that point. Asked a lot of questions of a lot of people. And I guess word got around.”

“Someone contacted you?”

“Yeah. Called and said they had information. They wanted to meet somewhere circumspect. Even over the phone he sounded twitchy, so I’m guessing he had his reasons for wanting to keep a low profile. I suggested a pub, and he agreed.”

Strike paused, thinking over that night. All the different choices he should have made.

“And?” Robin prompted and sipped her tea.

He sighed. “About thirty minutes after I arrived, I got a text saying security had turned him away, and I’d have to meet him nearby. Around the corner.”

Her gaze darkened, but she didn’t interrupt.

“So, I went out and asked the security guards if they’d refused entry to someone, figuring he was lying to me. But they said they had about five minutes ago because he looked high on something. Since the source was telling the truth, I went looking for him. There was an alley around the corner. It was dark and it stunk, so it made sense this is where he would have gone after getting turned away.”

He drew in a breath. Robin leaned forward, her hands tightening around her mug. “And?”

“I didn’t even see him. The bullet came out of nowhere. That was the last thing I knew.”

Her hands tightened even further on the ceramic, and he saw she was trying to suppress tremors in her hands. Her face was a mask of blank professionalism, however. God, he was proud of her.

“And you think the source shot you?”

“Could be. Probably. I think it depends somewhat on if he was telling the truth about having information about the missing man.”

“So, what are the options? Whoever shot you either wanted you dead or wanted to scare you badly enough to leave off the investigation and got a little too close.”

“Agreed.” He’d already thought all this over, but he let Robin work through it, too. Her mind worked differently to his, and she could easily see something he’d miss, or make a different leap of intuition. It was why they worked so well as partners. Why it was important he not jeopardise their working relationship, no matter how beautiful she looked there in the morning light.

“The options of who shot at you are, one, the source. Two, someone who hired the source. Three, the missing man himself. Is that all?”

“Or some combination thereof.”

She nodded. “So, we find the source?”

He snorted. “We can try. Wardle tried to trace the text, but the phone must be off or damaged. We don’t have much else to go on.”

She fell silent for a moment. “Did the police ever identify the junkie?”

“What?”

“The junkie you said they pulled from the Thames. Did they ever identify him?”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“I’m just thinking that you have a missing junkie, and a dead junkie. They might be the same person.”

Something clicked in his mind, and he knew instantly she was likely right. “Someone killed him. Either the missing man, or the person responsible for the missing man.”

“There’s something strange going on here,” she mused.

“Yes. But if you’re right, the source is a dead end—literally.”

“Then I guess we have to find the missing man. Since this is clearly about him, if we find him, or find out whatever happened to him, then we’ll no doubt find whoever shot you.”

Strike hesitated for a moment. “What’s this ‘we’? Now that you’ve seen I’m alright, shouldn’t you return to your honeymoon?”

Her eyes met his, and he drew in a sharp breath. There was some emotion there that he couldn’t—wouldn’t—identify.

“Robin, you don’t have to worry about me, really. I’m fine.”

She shook her head. “No, Strike. I won’t return to my honeymoon. I’m not going back to Matthew at all.”

He swallowed but didn’t say anything. What could he say? You’ve gone back before? “Alright,” he said eventually.

“Aren’t you going to ask why?” she coaxed softly.

Strike looked away. “I figure it’s none of my business.” If finding out the bastard had cheated on her during the worst period of her life wasn’t enough to stop her from marrying him, then he wasn’t sure what was.

“He blocked your number without telling me,” she said, voice lethal with suppressed rage. “I was going through my blocklist to make sure I’d unblocked _his_ numbers, and I saw it there. And while we were fighting about that, Shanker called with the news about you. And Matthew tried to stop me from coming back.” She paused. “I just can’t do it anymore, Strike.”

He nodded. It all came back to him, didn’t it? And that would make Matthew so much madder, Strike knew.

“Okay.” Hope blossomed, as it had done before. But this new development didn’t change anything. Not yet, anyway. “So how do you suggest we go about finding this guy?”

Robin stared at him a long moment, as if she’d been expecting more and was disappointed he hadn’t said it. Or maybe _she_ was the one with more to say. But now wasn’t the time. Her breaking up with Matthew wasn’t final yet. It was far too new and raw for that.

She must have decided to let it go. “I have some ideas,” she said eventually.

 

~*~

 

Hours later, they had Strike’s case notes spread across the bed. Robin had pulled the chair up to the edge of the bed, and was leaning over seemingly endless bits of paper.

Strike sat on the other side of the bed, as far from her as he could get. He’d tried to insist on them both going down to the office, but Robin had flatly refused. Now, he was glad she’d been so insistent, because his strength was rapidly failing. He still wasn’t fully recovered from the wound, and it would be a while until he was back to full strength.

Maybe he made a sound, because Robin sent him a glance, her eyes creasing in worry as she studied his face. He knew he must look like a wreck, but thankfully she didn’t comment.

As much as Strike was worried about what he might do while they were alone—the things he might say—even more, he was simply glad to be back in her company. It eased something in him. Like all was right with the world when they were together. A dangerous thought.

His eyes were repeatedly drawn back to her bare finger. Dare he hope they were over for good this time? Or would Robin once again succumb to the pressure and the history between her and Matt, and try to work things out between her and her new husband.

Strike didn’t know, which was a good reason for him not to get his hopes up. He’d give it a few months. And if it seemed that this time the break up was going to stick, then he’d think about saying something. Or not. He and Robin were still colleagues and partners. Maybe if he said something it would ruin their working relationship.

He made a sound of disgust and focused back on the matter at hand. They had a job to do, and he wasn’t getting paid to moon about over his partner.

“You know what’s not in here?” Robin commented, eyeing his notes.

“What’s that?” He knew he’d been thorough, and he didn’t think he’d forgotten anything. But maybe he’d been distracted during this investigation. Maybe that’s how he’d been stupid enough to get himself shot.

“His daughters say that he went to the pub with his friends regularly, right?”

He nodded, wondering where she was going with this.

“But none of the friends you interviewed said that’s what they did together. They mostly talk about work, or dinner parties. One said he went to a football match with Connelly recently. But that’s it. Did you interview his drinking buddies?”

Strike stilled for a moment, thinking back. “The people I spoke to were all the names I was given. Nobody mentioned any other friends. But you’re right. His daughters said that going to the pub was his major hobby, and they specified he went with friends, but I don’t know with who, and they didn’t either.”

Robin nodded slowly, considering. Then, she pulled out her phone and typed something in.

“There are five pubs within walking distance of Connelly’s house. It’s not far from here, and it’ll be the right time to catch the after work crowd, so I’ll catch the tube and have a chat to the bartenders and regulars at those places. See if anyone recognises him.”

Strike straightened and then immediately winced. “I’ll go with you,” he said through gritted teeth.

She sent him a withering look. “You will not. You’re meant to be resting. Healing.”

“I don’t want you wandering around alone at night. There’s a killer still on the loose out there.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not the target, remember. You are. Besides, we don’t know if the killer is coming back.”

He took a deep breath, trying to stay calm and rational rather than ordering her to stay with him and never leave his sight. That would only cause her to be more reckless than usual, he knew that much. But he also couldn’t bear if anything happened to her.

“Whoever shot me is tied to this case. You’re working on it now, too, so you might be a target.” There, that was reasonable.

She considered him for a long moment. “Fine. I’ll call Shanker to come with me. A good compromise?”

Strike leaned back against the head of the bed, breathing a sigh of relief. “That should be fine. But still be careful. Please.”

Her gaze softened. “Of course.”

Minutes later, she was gone, and Strike dozed into a much-needed rest.

Robin returned what felt like minutes later, but must have been hours. Strike jerked awake to see Robin throwing open the door, her eyes bright with triumph. He couldn’t help a smile even as he struggled to clear his head from the fog of his doze.

“What did you find?” he croaked out as she peeled off her coat.

She grinned at him and plonked herself on the bed, inches away from him. Strike stilled, resisting the urge to shuffle away from her. Or, worse, get much, much closer.

“I asked around. None of the bartenders recognised him, meaning he wasn’t a regular at any of the places near his place. But I did ask some of the patrons, too.”

“And?”

“And…” she said, drawing out the word and the moment to increase the suspense. “One guy—he’s a bouncer at a strip club a few streets over—says Connelly is a regular _there_.”

Strike frowned and rubbed his eyes. “He’s a regular at a strip club? Not a pub?”

“Right,” Robin replied, practically bouncing in excitement. “And better yet, my new bouncer friend saw Connelly there two nights ago.”

Strike blinked. “Well after he went missing.”

“Exactly,” she said with satisfaction. “So, clearly nothing bad has happened to him. He’s missing of his own accord. But we still need to talk to him and verify, I assume.”

“Right,” Strike said. “Did your new friend say when he expected Connelly again?”

She shrugged. “Apparently he’s there quite a bit, so it’s not out of the question that he’d go again tonight.” She stood. “It’s still early for a strip club. I’ll make us something to eat and then head back there.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “And what do you mean you’ll go back? You can’t mean to go alone.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “You can’t go,” she said, gesturing at his shoulder. “But someone has to.”

He shook his head. “No. I’m going with you.”

“Strike…”

“I’m serious. We’re just doing a stakeout, anyway. We’ll be in the car, and I’ll be nice and comfortable. But I’m not letting you sit out there alone. Not with a killer on the loose.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Fine.” She turned away. “What do you want for dinner?”

Strike blinked. That was easier than he’d expected.

“Anything is fine,” he replied. “Can I help?”

“No,” she told him, disappearing into the kitchen area. “You need to save your strength.”

He huffed, but settled back on the bed. “You don’t need to look after me,” he told her gruffly. Though part of him enjoyed it—far too much.

“Someone has to,” she told him over her shoulder with a smile. “And why not me?”

Unspoken was the question “who else?” and Strike had never felt the loneliness of his solitary existence more acutely.

He could think of a million reasons why Robin being here, in his apartment, alone with him and in a domestic situation like this was a terrible idea. But all of those reasons were part of the things they didn’t acknowledge between them.

The things that were getting increasingly difficult to ignore.

 

~*~

 

Later that night, the two of them pulled up outside The Crazy Horse, its neon lights filling the interior of Robin’s car with a pink glow. They’d had to circle the block four times before a parking spot opened up with a view of the entrance, and Robin had neatly manoeuvred the car into the space.

Strike found his gaze fixated on her hands, admiring the confident way she handled the car, and determinedly stared at the strip club across the road.

There was no line at the front—it wasn’t that kind of place—but a bouncer stood at attention just outside the front door, his arms crossed to show off his array of muscles. The exterior paint was peeling, and some of the neon bars in the sign had burnt out, giving the place a neglected feel.

Music throbbed, loud enough to be heard where they sat across the street with the windows tightly shut against the chill outside.

“Nice place,” Robin muttered.

Strike grunted and reached to adjust the back of his chair. He tilted it back until his head was only just above the window line, and sighed in relief as the pressure came off his shoulder. He kept his gaze on the club, but he was intensely aware of Robin next to him in the enclosed space.

Robin twisted in her seat to face the club more comfortably. “I wonder why Connelly chose this place as his regular. It doesn’t look like much.”

“Maybe he has a thing for one of the dancers,” Strike suggested.

“Could be,” Robin mused. “Maybe that’s why he didn’t tell his family. And he disappeared because he’s planning to run away with her.”

“Possibly.” It wasn’t a bad theory, but Strike’s instincts told him there was more going on. Why else would someone have shot him?

“But, then, why would someone have shot you?” Robin mused.

Strike suppressed a smile at how in sync their minds were.

“I don’t know. But I think we’ll find out soon enough.” He pointed at a middle-aged man entering the club. The man was of average height, thickening around the middle, and his hair thinning on top. Entirely forgettable and exactly what anyone would think of when they were confronted with the word “accountant”.

“That’s him?” Robin asked, reaching for the door handle. Without thinking, Strike reached over and clasped her wrist, stopping her.

They both froze. The warmth of her body radiated through his coat and into his side. The skin of her wrist was soft beneath his hands and her soft breath fanned across his cheek.

Slowly, dreading what he’d see but unable to stop himself, he turned to face her and nearly groaned. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed. She looked like a woman anticipating pleasure. Her eyes darkened as their gazes met and Strike felt himself drift even closer to her, against his will.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips and all the blood rushed from his head. A warning sounded at the back of his mind, one he couldn’t remember but knew he had to heed.

What were they doing? Stakeout. Connelly. Right.

Strike jerked back from her, jolting his injured shoulder in the process. He winced, and finally reality intruded. What the hell was he doing? He knew better than this.

He closed his eyes, shutting out the temptation she presented, and took a deep breath to control himself. This stakeout was a terrible idea. He never should have allowed them to be alone like this, but obviously he’d overestimated his ability to control himself around her. Particularly when he knew a part of her wanted to explore what was between them as much as he did.

But they couldn’t. Not now when her break up with Matthew was so fresh. Maybe not ever.

“Strike?” Robin asked, confusion in her voice.

He cleared his throat and opened his eyes, forcing his voice to come out normally. “We should wait until he comes out,” he said. “No sense in confronting him in there.”

She eyed him for a long moment, and Strike sent up a prayer that she’d follow his lead and ignore the moment between them.

Finally, she nodded. “Fine.”

He let out a shaky breath of relief and settled in to wait.

The next hour was utterly excruciating. He and Robin barely said a word to each other, both keeping their gazes firmly locked on The Crazy Horse. That was why Strike noticed when the bouncer glanced their way a number of times, his frown deepening with each pass.

“I think we’re about to have company,” Strike told her.

“The bouncer?”

So, she’d noticed him, too.

The bouncer pushed off the wall. Glancing left and right, he crossed the quiet street and headed towards them.

“Here we go,” he murmured. He was just preparing a lie for the man when he suddenly found his arms full of Robin. He planted his hands on her hips automatically to steady her. He had barely a half-second to process that before her lips landed on his.

Her lips were soft. So soft. And she tasted like cherries—tart and sweet. Her fingers tunnelled into his hair pulling him impossibly closer to her.

Strike kissed her back—it was impossible not to—even as those warning bells blared in his head, telling him to stay away. His hands tightened on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and her hips tilted forward, landing against a part of him that was rapidly gaining interest in what was happening.

She made a sound deep in her throat at the contact, one that arrowed straight to his groin.

Shit, he was in trouble.

He barely heard the tapping. It wasn’t until it graduated into an aggressive pounding that it finally penetrated the fog of lust in his brain. He tore his mouth from Robin’s and looked up to see the bouncer glaring at them through the window.

Right. Stakeout. Connelly. Jesus, how had Strike let this happen? Let Robin kiss him, let himself get so distracted from the job they were here to perform.

Deliberately, he unfastened his grip from Robin’s hips and reached for the handle to wind down the window. Robin hadn’t said a word, but her chest still heaved, and Strike couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been as affected by their encounter as he had been. That kiss had changed everything.

But it had also changed nothing.

“Hi,” Strike said, his voice rough. “What can I do for you?”

The bouncer huffed out a breath. “I’m going to need for you two to move along. No one will pay for a show if they can get it for free.” He indicated back to The Crazy Horse.

Strike cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry about that. We’re actually just—”

“On our way home,” Robin said brightly, swinging her leg off Strike and plonking herself back in the driver’s seat.

Strike sent her a sharp glance, and her eyes flicked away and then back to his. He followed the look to see Connelly leaving the club and heading towards a red sports car. It looked new and expensive, but he couldn’t tell the model from where he sat.

“Yep, we’ll be heading home now,” he said to the bouncer with a forced smile.

The man grunted, shook his head in exasperation, and then left without saying another word. By the time he was back at his post, Robin had the car on and in gear, and she pulled away from the kerb as Connelly reached the end of the street.

She tailed him efficiently, not asking Strike for any pointers, but not needing any. The kiss hung in the air between them, but Strike refused to bring it up even as he seethed in resentment and lust. There were plenty of ways they could have resolved that situation with the bouncer that didn’t require them to kiss. Much safer ways. Instead, she’d taken the opportunity to kiss him, and now it would be even harder for them to go back to what they were before. The fiction they’d created between them—that they were only friends and colleagues—hadn’t yet shattered completely. After all, they could still pass off that kiss as part of the job, a distraction. But it was thinning. The barrier between truth and lie, past and present. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep shoring it up.

“I think he’s stopping,” Robin said, yanking Strike from his thoughts. He focused on the car ahead of him as it pulled into the driveway of a gated house. Leaving the car on, Connelly stepped out to open the gate, or maybe to buzz the intercom.

Strike and Robin drew level as Connelly turned to survey the street. Connelly’s gaze fixed on Strike’s through the window of the car.

Robin slowed. Connelly reached behind himself.

Strike’s pulse jumped into action, his instincts screaming at him. “Keep driving,” he said, urgently and too loud in the small cab of the car.

“What?” Robin asked. “Why?” But she pressed her foot on the accelerator and the car leapt down the street. Connelly kept his eyes on them the whole time, his hand resting on something at the small of his back.

Robin turned a corner, and Connelly was out of sight. “What was that about?” she hissed. “We needed to talk to him.”

“I think he had a gun,” Strike told her.

Robin stilled. “Why would he have a gun? They aren’t exactly easy to come by.”

“I don’t know,” Strike replied. “But I think we should find out before we talk to him.”

Robin nodded slowly. “Makes sense. How will we do that?”

“I’m going to call Wardle. He didn’t recognise Connelly’s name when he interviewed me after the shooting, but maybe he’s turned something up. You keep driving.”

“Or maybe there’s more to The Crazy Horse than we thought.”

“Exactly,” Strike said, digging out his phone. He found Wardle’s number in his phone and dialled.

“Do you know what time it is?” Wardle said instead of a greeting.

“Yes,” Strike said, a stab of guilt hitting him. But this was urgent, damn it. “I’ll be quick. Did you ever find out more about Connelly?”

Wardle sighed. “Not a lot. All his financials were in order. He didn’t have an ounce of debt, and more money than I would have thought, but I guess accountants are good with budgets.”

“Right. So, none of the usual reasons someone would go missing.”

“Yeah. From what I know of him, I’m inclined to think your shooting was unrelated to the case. A mugging gone wrong maybe.”

Strike resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Maybe.” He paused. “Can you tell me anything about a strip club called The Crazy Horse?”

“Why do you want to know about that place?”

“For a case,” he replied noncommittally.

“Well, it’s most likely a front for the mob. We think they launder money through there but we’ve never been able to prove it. The books are too good.”

“Almost like an accountant did them?” Strike asked, as everything clicked into place.

Wardle was silent for a long moment. “Yeah,” he said eventually, a hint of speculation in his voice. “You need help with anything else?”

“That’s all for now. Thank you.”

They said their goodbyes and Strike hung up. “You hear that?” he asked Robin.

“Connelly works for the mob? He doesn’t seem the type.”

“No. But maybe he always wanted to be that type.”

She nodded, as if that made sense. “He was sick of the boring life of an accountant and decided to use his skills to help the mob?”

“Right. Wardle says that his financials are clean, and that he seems to be doing oddly well for himself for an accountant.”

“So the mob is paying him, but he knows how to make the money look clean?”

“That’s my guess.”

“Why disappear?” she asked. “Why now?”

Strike shrugged. “He’s divorced, his kids are grown. Maybe he decided he didn’t want to be on the fringes of that world anymore, he wanted to be in the thick of it.”

She fell silent. “What are we going to tell his daughters?”

Strike swallowed a lump in his throat. “I don’t know.” They deserved the truth about their father, but only once he and Robin were sure of what they were speculating about. And there had to be a way for him to soften the blow.

They made it back to his apartment, and Robin came upstairs with him. The adrenaline from the encounter with Connelly had faded, leaving him exhausted and hurting. Strike suspected that Robin wanted to make sure he got inside safely, and he was touched by the gesture.

Though, now that they were back in his apartment, near his bed, the spectre of their kiss loomed large between them. He settled back in place against the stack of pillows—still fully clothed, his leg on, and over the covers—and cleared his throat.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to stay.” Hopefully she’d get the hint. He couldn’t have her here, not while the kiss was in such recent past. He needed time to set it aside and put it behind him. So he wouldn’t think about it every time he looked at her. About how she’d felt against him. Her taste. The press of her lips and the sounds she’d made.

“We should talk about what happened,” Robin said, leaning against the wall. She’d taken off her coat, clearly intending to stay at least a little while.

“Connelly can wait until morning,” he replied.

“Not Connelly,” she said, and his heart jolted. “The kiss.”

He shook his head even as his pulse thundered in panic. “Nothing to talk about. You reacted quickly to a possibly dicey situation. It’s not the method I would have chosen, but it was effective.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You think that’s all it was?”

“What else could it be?” he challenged. He wanted her to back down. To take the hint, and the out he’d given her, and say the kiss meant nothing.

Instead, she pushed away from the wall and came towards him. “Strike, surely it meant—” She broke off with a sound of frustration.

“We can discuss it after this case,” he said hurriedly. “After we figure out what’s going on with Connelly.” That would give Robin enough time to rethink this. To realise it was safer if they didn’t bring whatever was between them out into the open. If they simply kept pretending that they were colleagues and friends and nothing more.

And it would give them both space to forget about the kiss. They had to. Because too much had changed with that kiss, and Strike didn’t think it could go back to the way it had been unless he managed to put the whole incident out of his head entirely. Impossible, maybe. But he had to try.

Robin sighed. “Fine. Get some rest. I’ll be back in the morning and we can decide how we’ll approach Connelly.”

Strike let out a relieved breath. “Sure.”

With that, she gave him a final, disappointed look, and then grabbed her coat and headed out the door.

 

~*~

 

Strike woke to someone in his apartment, and this time it wasn’t Robin. The footfall was too heavy, the breathing too harsh.

Connelly.

Strike lay very still, trying not to give away the fact that he’d woken. What was Connelly doing here? Would he finish what he’d started in the alley, and kill Strike properly this time?

Strike couldn’t imagine what had turned a mild-manner accountant into a killer, but he couldn’t deny that was what seemed to have happened.

_Click._ A gun being cocked. Strike readied himself. He wouldn’t have a hope of surprising Connelly with an attack. For one, he was at a disadvantage, on his back under the covers. And secondly, he didn’t have his leg on. If he tried to jump Connelly, there was every chance he would just surprise the man into pulling the trigger, or putting himself in a position where Connelly could overpower him.

He had to be smart about this.

“How did you get in here?”

“I have friends with many skills, these days,” Connelly replied. Fabric rustled, as if he was raising his arm.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Strike said into the darkness, slowly opening his eyes. His heart hammered in his chest, but he made every effort to make his voice sound relaxed, casual. It would knock Connelly off balance, and hopefully would stop the man from panicking and doing something rash, like shooting Strike.

“Why’s that?” Connelly sneered, but Strike could sense the hesitation behind the words. He glanced at the gun and saw a faint tremor in Connelly’s hand. He wasn’t a hardened killer, that much was certain. He may or may not have been the one to kill the junkie source the night Strike was meant to meet with him, but it was clear killing wasn’t nothing to the man.

Strike had to use that hesitation to his advantage.

Strike glanced back at the man’s face. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow in the faint moonlight from behind the curtains. His eyes were wide with fear, but horribly, painfully determined.

Maybe Strike wouldn’t be able to talk him out of this, but he had to try.

“The police know you’re working for the mob, and know you were the one who shot me last time.” Not entirely true, but he was sure even Wardle could connect the dots and figure out it was Connelly that shot him. Besides, Robin would be able to tell him their suspicions. Robin, who was thankfully out of harm’s way right now. He’d never been more grateful that he’d sent her away.

Robin, who if he died tonight, would never know he loved her.

“How’d you figure it out?” Connelly whispered, gun still trained on Strike.

Slowly, carefully, Strike sat up. Connelly backed up a few steps but he didn’t pull the trigger. Emboldened, Strike swung himself around and planted his foot on the floor.

“There are only so many people who would want me dead for investigating your whereabouts. And once we heard you were still frequenting The Crazy Horse, rather than the victim of foul play, we knew you were the most likely suspect.”

“No one was meant to find me,” Connelly exploded, waving the gun. Strike flinched back. “No one was meant to look. No one was meant to _care_.”

“You have two daughters. They were worried about you.”

He scoffed. “Worried I’d stop sending them money, you mean. They haven’t visited me for years unless they wanted something. I should have paid them off,” he finished, bitter and resentful.

“You could have told them you were leaving.” He had to keep Connelly talking, until he could convince the man to put the gun down.

“Then they would have tried to get me to stay.”

“But you couldn’t?” Strike eased to the very edge of the bed, keeping a careful eye on Connelly.

“I deserve better than the pathetic life I was leading,” he spat out. “Better than daughters who see me as a bank, and an ex-wife who hates me. I’ve worked hard all my life, and I deserve the reward for that.”

“That’s why you got yourself a nice sports car.”

“Exactly!” Connelly replied, eyes bright.

“You like the finer things in life.”

“Who doesn’t?” Connelly waved the gun slightly, no longer wholly focused on shooting Strike. It was nearly time for him to make his move.

“So you started working for the mob.”

“They came to me with a proposition. How could I refuse their offer?”

“And now you figured it was time to give up your old life for good? Immerse yourself fully in your new world?”

“That’s right,” Connelly said. Strike braced himself, ready to launch himself at Connelly. “But first I have to deal with you. They said I can’t be one of them until you’re out of the way. For good. And your pretty partner, too.”

The sadistic gleam of excitement in Connelly’s eyes sent a chill down Strike’s spine. The man was mad. Completely mad. And Robin was in his crosshairs.

Strike didn’t give himself time to think. He pushed off the mattress and dived at Connelly, knocking the gun to the side. It went off, and a bullet shot into the wall over Strike’s shoulder.

Knowing he was at an intense disadvantage as long as they were upright, Strike caught Connelly around the middle and swung the man to the floor. The move overbalanced him, and they both landed with a thud.

Strike groaned as his shoulder jarred, but he couldn’t let the pain overtake him. Instead, he reached across Connelly for the gun. But Connelly wasn’t as stunned by the fall as Strike had hoped. He yanked his arm out of Strike’s reach and pointed the weapon at Strike’s chest.

Before he could pull the trigger, Strike wrapped his hand around the man’s wrist and pushed it to the side, so it aimed over his shoulder. Strike had never been more glad of his superior size and strength, though his shoulder screamed in pain at the exertion.

He needed to disarm Connelly for good.

Connelly fought him, trying to bring the gun around, but Strike kept it pointed away. Until Connelly got an unholy light in his eyes and reached up with his free hand.

He struck, hard and fast, right at the wound in Strike’s shoulder.

Strike yelled in pain, releasing his grip on Connelly’s gun arm. Connelly brought the gun up again, and Strike rolled away, clutching at his wound. He was sure Connelly had opened it again, the bastard. Liquid welled between his fingers as he pressed his hand firmer against the wound.

Connelly laughed and rolled onto his knees. He grinned down at Strike, clearly enjoying himself, as he aimed the gun directly between his eyes.

Strike swallowed, waiting. Was this it? Would he die, here and now, with so much left unfinished? He hadn’t told Robin he loved her. Never made love to her. Never known what it was like to wake up with her in his arms.

At least he had the memory of the kiss. It would have to be enough.

“You shouldn’t have come looking for me,” Connelly hissed.

His fingers tightened on the trigger. Strike braced himself for the end.

The door behind Connelly opened, and Robin was standing there as if he’d conjured her. She still wore the clothes she’d been in earlier, and her expression was as fierce as an avenging angel’s.

Connelly didn’t even have a chance to turn all the way around before she’d swung the kettle she was holding with all her might, slamming it into Connelly’s temple. The man went down immediately, dropping like a stone.

Robin crouched to divest him of his gun, and then turned to Strike.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better,” he admitted as pain rolled across him in waves. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the office, compiling a report for Wardle on Connelly,” she said, sparing the unconscious man a glance.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she said simply.

He tried to nod, but his head swam. And then her face was the last thing he saw before blackness swallowed him whole.

 

~*~

 

Days later, he and Robin were back in the office. Strike was out of the hospital—again—and he’d given his statements to Wardle about everything that had happened. While he’d been recovering, Robin had managed the difficult job of telling Connelly’s daughters what they’d found, but thankfully they hadn’t taken the news too badly, considering.

Things were back to normal.

Except, they weren’t. Because he and Robin had still kissed. And she was still not wearing her ring.

And, frankly, Strike wasn’t sure what to do about it.

He couldn’t forget the kiss, that much was clear. He’d certainly tried hard enough since it had happened.

He had no idea what Robin thought about the whole thing. Maybe the kiss had been nothing to her. Something in the heat of the moment, easily forgotten in the light of day.

But then, sometimes, he’d catch her watching him, a speculative look on her face. And he’d wonder if maybe it hadn’t been nothing at all. But neither of them mentioned the kiss, despite his promise that they’d talk about it, before Connelly had attacked him and she’d so spectacularly felled the man.

Maybe it was for the best.

“Tea?” he asked as he flicked on the kettle and leaned against the counter.

“Yeah, thanks,” she muttered, glaring at her screen. She huffed.

“What’s up?” he asked her, moving closer so he could peer over her shoulder.

Robin glanced up at him and rolled her eyes. “Matthew has sent another pissy email. He doesn’t know when to quit. I don’t know why he bothered, since I’ve said everything I have to say. Twice.”

Strike’s heart lurched at the mention of Matthew. “So it’s definitely over then?”

“Yes,” she said definitively, glancing back at the screen. This time his heart didn’t just lurch, it somersaulted. “This last week without him has been weird, but good.”

Strike desperately didn’t want to be talking about this, but he supposed he had to. He and Robin were friends, after all. Even if they were also so much more.

“Weird how?” he asked, turning away to extract the mugs from the cupboard so she couldn’t read his face.

“I suppose I was just so used to him being there. It’s taken a while for me to adjust. But I feel…free. Happy. It’s the right thing, to break up.”

Strike glanced over his shoulder to study her face. Neither her voice, nor her expression, gave any hint that she was trying to convince either him or herself. She sounded steady. Sure. And she was right, she even looked happier. Tension he hadn’t even known was there—that must have been there since before they’d met—had drained out of her.

And for the first time, Strike started to believe the possibility that Robin’s relationship with Matthew really was over.

“Matthew will realise it eventually.”

“Have you spoken to him?” He poured the boiling water into the mugs.

“A few times. He still doesn’t believe it’s over, and I’m sick of explaining it to him.”

Strike blew out a breath. If Robin had been avoiding Matthew, he would have been more inclined to think there was a possibility the two of them would get back together. But if she’d seen him, talked to him, and explained the situation, he knew Robin probably meant it.

The question was, what would he do about it?

Robin pushed back from her desk and stretched. “I’ll finish the tea, if you like,” she offered, coming towards him. She bent to retrieve the milk from the fridge and set it on the counter next to him.

Strike froze. She was close. Too close. He could feel the warmth of her, inches from him, and he’d barely have to move his hand to be touching the curve of her hip. The hip his fingers had dug into during the heat of passion, less than a week ago.

Shit.

He shuffled away as casually as he could until at least a foot was between them.

Robin narrowed her eyes at him. “We’re going to have to talk about this eventually.”

“What?” Strike asked with affected nonchalance, though he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“Well, the kiss, for starters.”

Strike’s heart kicked, then began to beat rapidly in his chest. He needed to escape this conversation before either of them said something they’d regret. Something that couldn’t be unsaid.

“Nothing to talk about,” he said, his voice only slightly strangled. “It was a distraction, done for professional reasons, no more.”

Robin sucked in a deep breath, as if shoring up her strength. “Not for me it wasn’t.”

Strike swallowed. “Ah,” he said, because he couldn’t think of anything else. All their work at pretending there wasn’t anything between them, the careful half-truths, and Robin was blowing it all out the water with a single sentence. Why the hell was she destroying their delicate balance?

She stepped closer, and Strike shuffled even closer to the wall. Soon, he’d have nowhere left to escape to.

“I was looking for an excuse to kiss you, and I grabbed it. Was it just business for you?” she demanded.

His stomach roiled. “Robin, I don’t think we should talk about this now. You’ve just got out of a bad relationship and—”

She stepped closer, and he broke off. He kept his gaze on her like a gazelle might watch a lion, waiting for it to pounce. Her hand came up to rest on his chest and Strike made a strangled sound.

“Just tell me the truth,” she coaxed.

His gaze lifted to meet her eyes. Her expression was warm, open, and so full of yearning it stole his breath.

He’d been ready to deny everything. But when she looked at him like that, he found he could only tell her the truth.

“It wasn’t just business for me,” he murmured, voice throaty and low. “I don’t think it’s ever been just business between us.”

Her smile lit him from the inside, like sunshine on a cloudy day. “I’m glad to hear it.”

The hand resting on his chest slid up to his shoulder, and she moved until she was pressed against him.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “You’ve just got out of a bad relationship and—”

“I’m sure,” she interrupted him, and she sounded so definite that Strike believed her. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t take this thing between them slowly, but he didn’t feel like a rebound. This wasn’t desperate or hurried for either one of them.

“Okay,” he said. He’d pay her the respect she deserved by believing her. Of their own accord, his hands came up and flattened against her back, pulling her into him.

Slowly, with more restraint than he felt, Strike dipped his head towards her. When their lips met, she sighed, or maybe he did. This wasn’t like the frantic, lust-filled kiss in the car. This was steadier, deeper. Far more meaningful.

It was a beginning.

She filled up the dark corners of his soul with her sweetness and light, and joy spread through his limbs.

He wouldn’t tell her that he loved her just yet. That could wait.

But, for now, Robin was in his arms, where she belonged.


End file.
